


Roots

by lemonpie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Farmhouse of Love, M/M, Mike Hanlon Deserves Nice Things, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonpie/pseuds/lemonpie
Summary: Through the window, he could see Bill's head as he presumably made himself another cup of tea to take with him to the typewriter. Their collie, Pickle, was laying on the porch, watchful. The soft sound of rain pattering on the leaves around him was a soothing one, a familiar one.The rain here was cool and fresh. The air was crisp and clean. There was nothing hanging over the people here, nothing sticky and dark clinging to the corners and making the air heavy and damp.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Roots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [insatiablegaydesire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insatiablegaydesire/gifts).



> this is a gift for my beloved erica, whomst inspires me to be a little shit each and every day. its short but i hope you like it. 
> 
> give mike hanlon what he deserves (love)

In the grand scheme, four years was not a particularly long time. 

Mike Hanlon stood on his porch, a cup of coffee cradled in his weathered hands, and watched the sun rise over his apple orchard. The house was small, cosy. A farmhouse, really, but Mike had fallen in love with it the moment he saw it. Far from Derry, far from the past forty years of his life. Far from all the horrors that town had held.

"You're thinking too hard. Those are your thinking shoulders." 

Arms wrapped around Mike's waist, and he huffed, unable to fight the smile that pulled and not particularly wanting to. "I don't have thinking shoulders." 

Bill had his face pressed against Mike's back, and his fingers curled in the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. "You do. You have b-brooding shoulders as well." 

"I don't brood." 

In the orchard, a crow cawed, flapping its wings, and Mike watched it go, his expression one of peace. Bliss. Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't gotten Bill on his side. He sighed and pushed those thoughts from his mind. 

"The sheep need to be sheared later." He said, instead of arguing the point with Bill. His husband. "And I want to make some apple pie later. Before Rich and Eddie bring their brood over." Bill laughed, which had been Mike's intention, and hearing it made him smile too. A slight breeze rustled the trees, bringing with it the smell of wildflowers and fruit. 

Nearby, one of the sheep bleated, and another responded. "They're going to eat all the grasseed." Bill sighed, and this time Mike laughed. He didn't want to stop it. Laughter had been a rarity, before. Back in Derry. He loved books, he still did, of course he did. He sometimes put in a few hours shelving at the local library when Bill was writing, but now he was more than happily mostly-retired. The Derry public library would still be going strong for a long time to come. 

He shook off thoughts of Derry and took a sip of his coffee. He thought of his parents, then. Mornings like these, he thought of them often. Thanked God he was blessed with them, especially when he compared them to the parents of his friends. Will Hanlon had been a tough man, but he had loved his son, and instilled in him the love of books, the love of  _ learning.  _ Jessica Hanlon had been a force to be reckoned with. She had taught him so much. She'd taught him to stand up for himself, really, hadn't she? Hadn't it been her who had wanted to storm down to the Bowers' farm herself and tear old Butch a new one?

Bill's fingers on his face pulled him from his musings. Somehow, he had gotten all the way around Mike without him noticing. "You've got your thinking shoulders on again." He murmured, and Mike smiled at him. "I don't have thinking shoulders." He repeated, just for the sake of it. 

\--

Dirt clung to Mike's fingernails and the creases of his hands, but he had never been happier. He was on his knees among the vegetables he was growing on the side of the house, potatoes and carrots and onions. They had a strawberry patch further away, for when their nieces and nephews visited. Of course, Mike took care of it in the meantime. He had forgotten how much he loved this. 

With gentle fingers, he picked up a small ladybug and set it on one of the leaves of the potato plant, watching it buzz its wings a few times before it crawled up towards the stem. A few droplets of rain splattered the back of his neck, and he looked up, wiping sweat from his forehead and smearing dirt there by accident. 

He stood, then, when it was clear the rain wasn't going to stop, and brushed himself off, though it was a hopeless move. He'd have to shower. Instead of going inside, he went towards the orchard, letting the cool rain soothe his warm skin. He stood on his tip-toes to pick an apple from one of the trees, checking it over for spots. There were none, and he bit into it. The clean taste of the rain, the sweet burst of the fruit. 

Through the window, he could see Bill's head as he presumably made himself another cup of tea to take with him to the typewriter. Their collie, Pickle, was laying on the porch, watchful. The soft sound of rain pattering on the leaves around him was a soothing one, a familiar one. 

The rain here was cool and fresh. The air was crisp and clean. There was nothing hanging over the people here, nothing sticky and dark clinging to the corners and making the air heavy and damp. Here, the people went about their daily business, like they did everywhere, but it was different, somehow. Maybe Mike had just gotten used to people not caring. 

A heron flew overhead, flapping its huge wings, and Mike watched it go. Its long legs trailed out behind it, giving it an odd, lanky appearance. 

He finished his apple and tossed the core into the grass, not particularly worried about it, before finally going back inside to wash himself up. The sound of Bill typing in the other room as he stepped inside made him smile uncontrollably and he peeked his head in to check. Sure enough, there was a cup of tea steaming by Bill's left hand as he typed, glasses perched on his nose. 

"And you say I think too hard." Mike said, which made Bill look up at him.

"You do." He answered, pushing his glasses up. "You're covered in dirt again." 

Mike laughed. He laughed a lot, these days. "You can take the boy out of the country, or however that saying goes." 

In the grand scheme, four years was not a particularly long time. 

To Mike Hanlon, four years wasn't nearly enough. He washed his hands, looking out at the rain, and only wished he had done this sooner. 

And Mike was happy. 


End file.
